


vending machines

by touchtheskye



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Skoulson RomFest 2k15 REDUX, Tumblr Prompt, hotels and motels, mulder and scullying intensifies, slight x-files feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 11:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4389299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchtheskye/pseuds/touchtheskye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They haven’t talked about it, but it’s become kind of a tradition. Skye can’t remember the last time she went away and didn’t find a snack tucked into her bag. </p>
<p>(Written for Skoulson RomFest 2k15 Redux. Day 1, prompt: junk food.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	vending machines

Skye wonders about Coulson sometimes. She eyes the pack of licorice in her suitcase, nestled beneath some of her shirts.

They’ve been doing this for a while now. Chocolate bars, Twizzlers, Little Debbie Snack Cakes. Any time they’re separated, one slips some sort of treat into the other’s bag. It started in that grungy motel beside the pool, probably. A quiet and alarmingly intimate moment over a shared chocolate bar. _Nice night_.

They haven’t talked about it, but it’s become kind of a tradition. Skye can’t remember the last time she went away and didn’t find a snack tucked into her bag. She returns the favour, of course; donuts for the director in his gear bag on long missions. Skittles in his carry-on sometimes.

Even though it’s not a surprise anymore, Skye still gets a little thrill from discovering a present from Coulson in her bag. The _from Coulson_ part is important, somehow. It’s not the same when it’s from Jemma or Bobbi. And it’s not like Bobbi doesn’t pack great stuff. Actually, she has a knack for remembering little details. She knows all Skye’s favourite kinds of chips. Simmons, on the other hand… tends to lean towards the healthier options, but hey. It’s the thought that counts.

But Coulson. It’s different when it’s from Coulson. It’s tough to pin down why, exactly. For starters, he always manages to pick exactly what she’s craving, like he’s reading her mind when he’s not even there. Like he already knows exactly how the mission will go and how she’s going to feel about it afterwards, what kind of comfort food she’s going to want. Things went smoothly, ready to celebrate? Caramel corn. Long haul, exhausted? Milk chocolate. A few scares, residual jitters? Snack cakes. Technical work, brain’s tired but your body’s hungry? Chips. Bad guys got there first, still angry? Gummi bears, licorice, something to chew.

There’s more to it, of course. Something about how it feels like taking care of each other. It reminds her of her van for some reason. Or her bunk on the Bus. Home. 

Or whatever. It’s been a long day, she’s not in the mood to examine her feelings about home and family and how they’re apparently mixed up with her feelings about her boss.

She tears open the pack of licorice and flops down onto the hard motel mattress.

 

 

 

 

 

He wonders about Skye sometimes. He examines the package of mini donuts currently sitting on top of his socks.

Not that he’s complaining. The drive was long and he’s kind of hungry, he’s actually pretty excited at the prospect of mini donuts and coffee in a paper cup from the little machine above the bar fridge.

Is it weird that she knows to get the combo pack, the one with half chocolate and half plain? Why does she know that he can never decide?

He sets up the machine and starts brewing the world’s slowest, smallest, saddest cup of hotel coffee. He undoes his sling, stretches his stiff neck and shoulder muscles. The tie goes next; he’s gotten pretty quick at neatly folding a tie one-handed. 

He flops down onto the bed to wait for his coffee and ponder Skye’s ability to read him so well. He used to be good at the whole secret agent thing, once. Unremarkable, unreadable, blending with the crowd. 

To be fair, Skye’s profiling skills are the main reason she’s on the Caterpillar project. It’s why she’s such a good fit for SHIELD. She’s good at reading everybody, not just him. But sometimes it seems like she has a special knack for him specifically.

It’s also entirely possible that he’s more open with Skye than he is with anyone else. He’s definitely more _something_ with Skye, it’s not like his other agents pack his favourite donuts in his gear bag. He knows he doesn’t compare anyone else to Lola over a shared bag of Twizzlers.

The coffee turns out to be halfway decent with some of that hazelnut creamer. Even better with the sugar floating on top from dunking the donuts. He’s a sucker for the sweet stuff, always has been. So was his mother.

He wonders idly if he’s crossing some kind of line with Skye as he cleans powdered sugar and coffee off his fingertips. He’s probably better off not dwelling on that one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of course there’s only one bed. Neither of them mention it as they enter the cheap room, but Skye notices how Coulson’s eyes flick over to the uncomfortable-looking armchair.

Coulson’s obviously feeling awkward about it, but she’s way too tired and hungry and uncomfortable to care. It’s a bed. There is a roof. She’ll take it. She dumps her drenched duffel bag on the armchair.

They’re both soaked through from the torrential downpour outside. They made a run for it from the office after taking the last room, but it was pretty much a lost cause. She opens up her duffel bag and starts rooting around for dry clothes.

Coulson’s tie has already made it off, which is kind of impressive for a guy with one hand. He’s appropriated a towel from the bathroom (moss green, so tasteful) and is folding his tie up inside of it, pressing and dabbing the water from the silk.

“You’ll be more comfortable with your boots off,” he offers, nodding at Skye’s waterlogged and no doubt prune-y feet. 

His voice startles her, suddenly loud in the muted room. Everything else sounds duller, blanketed by rain. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been watching him methodically strip, dry, and fold his clothes.

“I know, in a minute. I’m heading back out,” and she’s gone before he can respond, a sock filled with quarters hanging from her hand.

By the time she gets back, Coulson is dry and dressed for bed in loose sweatpants and a t-shirt. His clothes are drying on hangers in the washroom.

“Rain hasn’t slowed down much,” he comments. Skye can feel how her hair is plastered to her face and neck. Her clothes are clinging to her. “There were extra towels in the closet. I left them on the radiator for you, thought I’d warm them up a little.”

“Thanks,” she tells him, and she means it. Warm towels, even of the moss green and from the early 2000s variety, sound amazing right now. 

“I brought two of everything from the vending machines. Well, two of everything good, obviously.”

“Skye, you didn’t need to - wait, are those Oreos?”

Skye drops the food in a heap on the bed. “Here are the rest of the quarters,” she says, placing the sock on the bedside table. She takes Coulson’s raised eyebrows as an invitation to elaborate. 

“Always bring a sock full of quarters to a motel. If there’s a vibrating massage bed, they don’t take anything but quarters. If there’s a vending machine, quarters. Laundry on-site, quarters. Pinball! Quarters. Crazy dude breaking into your room at three am, sock of quarters to the face. Indispensable.”

“I will take that under advisement.” Coulson is on the bed, sorting candy bars into pairs, evaluating the assets like the good secret agent he is. Skye checks behind the headboard and makes a sound of approval, dropping two quarters into the vibrating machine.

“Back in a sec.” She makes a beeline for the bathroom. 

Coulson has left a huge pile of towels on the radiator for her. Amazing. She kicks her boots off and pours their contents into the sink, then strips at record speed. She flings her sodden clothes at the tub, where they land with a wet thud. 

Folding is not happening. Donning her sweats and an oversized sweater, hair swept up into a towel, she joins Coulson on the bed.

“Vending machine picnics are the best. I used to love doing this.” She keeps her tone light, but she can tell that Coulson is watching her carefully.  
  
“It’s nice. Although I don’t know how I feel about the massage.” 

“True. I guess I could technically vibrate the bed for us, we don’t need to splurge on quarters.”

Coulson snorts. “SHIELD’s finances aren’t that dire, Skye. I think you can take the night off.”

She grins and rips open a chocolate bar. “Want half?”  


 

 

 

 

 

Their spontaneous vending machine picnic devolves into sugar-fuelled giggling pretty quickly. Sitting next to Skye against the headboard, Coulson tells her a few stories about his early days with SHIELD. She seems especially tickled by the idea that May barely tolerated him at first.

They finished the junk food a long time ago. Eventually he moves to collect the wrappers, but Skye puts her hand on his wrist. “Coulson, no. That is not how this works. Watch.”

Which is how they end up playing trashketball and insulting each other’s throwing abilities. He wins, not that he’s keeping score. But he is, and he does, and it seems to impress and/or irritate Skye, which delights him.

“Beginner’s luck,” she insists, yawning. “Gonna brush my teeth. Come on, Simmons will kill us if we come back with cavities.” She takes his elbow and gently pulls him towards the bathroom.

It’s strangely domestic, standing next to Skye and brushing his teeth like this, watching her comb her hair. It’s nice because it gives him an excuse not to speak. An excuse to avoid saying the things he should mention at this stage: _are we about to sleep in the same bed? Are you sure you don’t want me to sleep in the chair?_

_I’m your boss, this is inappropriate._

_This wasn’t what I had in mind when I got rid of levels._

Instead, he rinses the toothpaste out of his mouth and lets Skye usher him towards the bed. She’s turning off the lights and pulling back the covers, last chance -

Her legs brush against his as she slides into place next to him. He stays perfectly still, eyes trained resolutely on the ceiling.

“Hey,” Skye calls to him. It’s soft and pitched low, intimate. His eyes close at the sound of her voice.

“Skye,” he replies, and his own voice is rough with what he hopes sounds like sleep.

She presses her body to his side and wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. Whatever ambiguity was left is gone now. His heart is pounding against his ribs, betraying him. As if all of his actions up until now hadn’t exposed him already. He feels his cheeks flush as he turns on his side to face her. _She knows_.

He tries not to panic as her lips press against his, and he’s not entirely successful. She kisses him again and it’s a little better, still kind of stiff. But then she says _Coulson_ in an out-of-breath and amazed sort of way and it’s all he can do to keep his hand steady on her collarbone as he slides his tongue against hers.

 

 

 

 

 

Skye wonders about Coulson sometimes. She eyes the coffee and danish on the nightstand with confusion.

It’s early; she’s used to waking up around 5:00 every morning for training with May. The coffee is hot and the danish looks fresh. Coulson got up at 4:30 and snuck out to the gas station for breakfast?

She knows they have to get an early start, out of this motel by 6:30 at the very latest, but _really_?

She hears the sink running. Coulson appears a few moments later, smelling of shaving soap and toothpaste. He slides into their bed and presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Yes you did.” It comes out grumpier than intended.

“Yes, I did.” Shameless. The look on his face ought to be illegal. Too handsome, your smile is more seductive than the legal limit, you must pay this fine within 30 days.

“I understand what you’re implying and I’m one hundred percent on board, Director, but I’m going to have some coffee first.” She sits up against the headboard and draws her bare knees to her chest.

It’s been several months since the infamous vending machine picnic. Skye can honestly say she is very glad she decided to investigate her feelings about home and family and her boss that night.

Said boss is currently sitting on the bed in their motel room, watching her chug crappy gas station coffee with a combination of affection and impatience. His eyes follow her movements eagerly as she sets her coffee down, still two thirds full. 

She pulls away the blankets covering his chest and pushes him down onto the hard motel mattress.

 

 


End file.
